The Same Thing
by Brooklyn1918
Summary: As Steve Rogers rides through the European countryside, he comes across an old man who changes the way he has seen things for 70 years. Based on a real person, all conversations are real, and most of the actions are real. Story given to me by a military family member who was stationed in Germany.


**This is based on a true story about something that a German soldier from WWII said to one of my family members. All conversations are real from what the man had said, and the only things that have been changed are the party's with Steve Rogers. This was genuine and I'm sorry if this might upset anyone, I write for fun, and for others enjoyment.**

**

——————————————————————————

**

Steve was on leave, having desperately needed a break from the chaos that is the avengers, or more specifically, Tony Stark and Clint Barton. Steve is a very patient and kind person, but even then there is only so much drama one person can put up with. Steve has requested leave, gotten it, and taken one of the quinjets on a ride into Europe, hoping that maybe the landscape would be able to pull him out of reality and into his past, missing it desperately. He had landed in a private airfield in France, and unloaded his bike, then proceeding to drive all up and down the French coast and then up into Paris. A few days later he found himself going to the place he told himself he wasn't going to go, for to many painful memories loomed in the air, still fresh to him.

Germany was a beautiful country, there was no doubt. With all the grand architecture and the German countryside, and not to mention the beauty of the people. But the place has been turned sour and bitter in Steve's mind, the memories of 70 years ago haunting his mind, clouding his judgement. Steve has pulled off the road, stopping to rest on a strip of dirt, next to a stone wall, lichen and ivy growing from the shadowy depths between each rock. Extending for at least a mile behind him and on the other side of the wall was a hill, golden grass swaying in the summer breeze. Gnarled apple trees, worn down from age, littered the hillside, their leaves shine in the sun, causing the hill to almost glow. In front of Steve was a dirt driveway, and a small farmhouse, the sitters falling off, a hole in the roof, just in overall disrepair. Steve lays his head on the handlebars and turns off the bike, his head swimming with memories. Some flash in front of his eyes, but he isn't sure if the flashes are from the memories changing, or if they are because of the bombs ringing in his ears. "Why on earth did I come here?" He wonders aloud. With his head in too much of a shamble, he manages to completely miss the man who comes to stand facing him from the other side of the wall. He speaks in German, seeing as how they are in Germany. "Why are you here young man?" Steve looks up to take in the person. Back slightly hunched, he stands with both hands resting on the stones. His right hand is missing three fingers, and part of a forth is gone. His face is aged and weathered, his white hair bobbing in the wind. His blue eyes sparkle, showing a young curiosity, with a companion of an old pain. Steve pauses a moment thinking of how to say his response. "I'm sorry, I was just passing through." Damn he really wished he had one of Starks universal translators with him, German was hard! He had learned some when he was over in Europe fighting the war. "Are you American?" The man asks, thoroughly shocking Steve. "I am." He stammers our. "I have the upmost respect for Americans. Them and the others like France and Britain and such are sure forces to be reckoned with." The old man says back to him. Steve's question slips past his lips without him realizing it. Only having noticed it was rude after he said it. "What happened to your hand?" The mans face drops slightly and he holds up the damaged fingers. "Lost it in the war. Those damned German grenades." Steve gives a start. This man had been in the German army, HITLERS army. The man picks up his smile again, and Steve realizes the man was toying with him, but being completely serious. The man gestures with his good hand for Steve to come around to the driveway. Steve dismounts his bike and walks around into the driveway.

The man asks for some help in his barn, and Steve relinquishes it. The work goes fast, and before he knows it he is being led out of the barn and being commanded to sit on the old mans front porch. Reluctantly, Steve sits. The man dissapear a into his home, reappearing a moment later with a plate of cookies and a couple of German beers. He sets the tray on an end table, and pushes one of the beers to Steve. He takes it, not wanting to be rude, but before he takes a sip, he smells it unnoticed, trying to see if there were any poisons with his enhanced nose. Force of habit. Seeming it safe, he lets the amber liquid slide past his tounge and down his throat. He makes a small satisfied expression, as the drink is impressive, even if it would not be able to effect him. The old man laughs, and sticks out his good hand for Steve to shake. "Werner Zolov." He offers. Hesitantly, Steve takes the outstretched hand and gives it a shake. "Steve Rogers." He gives his name. Werner smiles and looks forward, his face dropping into neutral as he stares across the open orchard. "I didn't want to fight." He says solemnly. Turning slightly to look Steve in the eyes. "I was drafted in 43 at the age of 18. Got dismissed a year later after I accidentally blew my fingers to hell. But even when I was in the army involuntary, I wanted to protect my country from the allied invaders. And go home." Steve stops to stare back at Werner. His words leaving an impression in him that he didn't think were possible. "Guess I didn't get what I wanted. I never did find those fingers though. I was kind of attached to them." He jokes, and fully looks at Steve, who is speechless once more.

They chat for another hour before Steve leaves. He waves goodbye to the little old man, who waves to him from the porch. Steve straddles the bike, and turns it on. Giving one final look to Werner, he starts to pull out onto the road. "Good luck Captain." Werner yells, loud enough so that it can only faintly be heared over the roar of the engine. Steve looks back, startled that he had known who he was, but was only met with an empty porch, slowly growing smaller as he drove away. He turned back to the road, thinking about the conversation with Werner. It gave him a whole new perspective on things. They were all the same people, fighting for what they believed in. And it didn't matter what part of the world or what part of the walk of life they were on. They all wanted the same things. They wanted for peace, but went about it in different ways. And as he drives into the sunset, he can't help but to smile at the little things that one can learn everyday.


End file.
